


I'll Crawl Home to Her

by Maidservant_Hecubus



Series: Constant [2]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Blood and Injury, Complete, F/M, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rick speaks spanish, The Flesh Curtains, Young Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24514843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maidservant_Hecubus/pseuds/Maidservant_Hecubus
Summary: Rick shows up broken and bloody and needs your help. Then he needs you.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Reader
Series: Constant [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772254
Comments: 3
Kudos: 86





	I'll Crawl Home to Her

**Author's Note:**

> No one:  
> Me: Writes a sequel to She's Gonna Save Me
> 
> The season 4 finale really got to me. Have some 30's hero phase Rick. Title is from Work Song by Hozier

You were used to Rick coming to you bloody and bruised.

He’d show up out of nowhere. On your doorstep, around a corner, next to you at the bar at the Pen and Pencil club. Always hurt. Sometimes you could see it on his skin, other times you could read it on his face. Wounds that were deeper than flesh and blood. Those hurt you the worst. Rick didn’t give a fuck about anything. That's what he said. And you thought sometimes, when he was drunk enough, or high enough, that he actually believed it. But he always went back out there, wherever he was fighting in the great expanse, and he always came back bruised and bloody. 

You’d seen the swirling green portal a handful of times before. Like when you first met and he used it to drag you to Chinatown for dim sum and a tattoo as if you had known each other for years. Since then you’ve seen flashes of green around corners and behind bathroom stall doors, but never in your apartment. 

The flash was almost blinding when one appeared in the middle of your living room, ripping you out of the fugue state you took on when editing your weekly music feature for the local paper. You yelped in surprise and shielded your eyes until it closed itself and left only the broken man crumpled and bleeding onto your cheap carpet. 

“R-rick?” it was your turn to stutter, momentarily frozen at your typewriter.

His only reply was a groan and a twitch of his limbs as he tried to move himself. 

“Rick what happened?” You asked as you went to him, falling on your knees next to his battered body. You reached for him and then stopped, your hands hovering just shy of actually touching him. You didn’t want to make it worse.

“It’s just- I’m-” He coughed and you saw blood on his lips and his words turned into an airless wheeze.

This was bad. Very bad. Finally you did touch him, gently moving the arm he had wrapped around himself only to recoil in shock at the gaping wound across his gut. He had been holding himself together in the most literal way. 

“Oh, oh Jesus Christ, Rick!” Tears welled in your eyes and you placed your hands over the gash to try to stop the flow of blood. 

“Heh,” he laughed and your face crumpled at his bloody smile, “Fuck- fucking feds-federation,” he wheezed again, “Think - they think-” he coughed again and you felt blood pour over your hands, “Think they got me this time.”

You thought they had gotten him this time too. You didn’t know how he could possibly survive this. Briefly, the thought to call 911 crossed your mind. 

“No fuck-fucking pigs,” he said as if he had read your mind. He did that a lot and you always wondered if the implant he joked about wasn’t a joke.

“You’re going to die, Rick,” you insisted, positive of the outcome of the bloody mess of him.

“No- nope, no way, only - just- just- you, _sólo a ti_ ,” his eyes were unfocused and glassy as he rocked his head back and forth as he slipped into Spanish. The language he claimed he didn’t know. The language he only spoke in his sleep. This… this was very, very bad. 

“ _Eres el único en quien confío..._ You can - you're gonna- fuck - you fucking- you-” He shook his head to get it back on straight, “No, the fucking bugs don’t get to fuck me. On - on -on- between my shoulder blades, ahhhhh-a button, just- you gotta punch it. Hard. Punch me.”

“What?” You shook your head in disbelief. He wasn’t making any sense and it was all you could do to hold yourself together let alone him.

“Jesus-fuck-fuck- j-j-just do it you fucking c-c-coward!” he demanded and impotently tried to roll away to expose his bloodied back.

“Fine!” you snapped when all you wanted to do was sob. IF he was going to die anyway you might as well grant the bastards last wish. When you let go of his middle blood started pouring out again, you forced yourself to ignore it and rolled him over. It took some force. Even on his best days he looked skinny, sickly, but you knew better. He was all lean muscle and strangely heavy. You got him laid out prone on your floor and lifted your balled fist in the air as if you were about to administer an adrenaline shot. Once again you hesitated just a breath before bringing your fist down as hard as you could just where he had told you to. 

The blue flash scared the fuck out of you, nearly blinded you and you fell backwards and scurried back a few feet to get out of it’s way. A shell of blue light encased his body, pulsing grid lines dividing him up into tidy little squares and something rippled under his skin. It was the trippiest fucking Star Trek shit you had ever seen in your entire life. 

You watched in awe as bruises faded and cuts started knitting themselves back together. You watched as his breathing evened out and his lungs no longer sounded like they were full of shattered glass. He groaned.

“R-rick?” you stuttered his name for the second time and he laughed.

He shifted, his palms against the floor as he tried to push himself up. You scrambled back towards him to get him to stop, keep him down, there was no way…  
He laughed and rolled over onto his side to look up at you. A wicked smirk twisted his lips and he wagged his thick brows at you. You were speechless and ignored his look as you went to examine the deadly wound that had brought him to death's door. 

It was gone. Erased as if it had never been there. Just a bloody, torn shirt over pristine skin. You reached to brush your fingers across it, not trusting your eyes. 

“What hap-” you started and stopped again, struck dumb as he was suddenly on top of you, pinning you to the floor, his slender hips between your thighs, his lips at your throat. A cry of shock died on your lips and turned into a soft, surprised moan as he sucked a different sort of bruise onto your neck. Your own battle wound. A balance to the ones you had just seen erased from his skin.

“You-you- I knew,” he mumbled into you, “Baby, I knew I could count on you. I knew.”

He rolled his hips down and you could feel him hard against you. The ridge of his fly pressing into you, the buckle of his belt digging into you. It was emotional whiplash. Just moments ago you were coming to terms with this wonderful, brilliant, bastard man dying in your arms and then next he was full of life, rutting against you as if he had never been on the brink.

“ _Rick,_ ” you gasped and buried your fingers in his wild blue hair. 

“ _Shh,_ ” He shook his head in the crook of your neck and then pushed himself up and away from you and your grip on him.

He didn’t bother with foreplay. This wasn’t about that. This was about life. Reminding him, both of you that he was alive. He had survived. Lived again to fight another day.

He shoved his jeans and underwear down to his knees and hiked your skirt up around your waist and that was as much patience he had. Your panties stayed on, the gusset pulled to the side and in one long smooth motion he sank into you with a deep, desperate groan. You cried out for him as he filled you. Stretched you. Thrust inside of you. And you clung to him like you were the one drowning, dying, desperate. 

There were no long thrusts. He never pulled away from you. Just rocked his hips, hard, brutally so, fast and deep as he fucked you into the cheap, bloodied carpet. All you could do was dig your nails into his torn tank top and chant his name as tears of aborted grief and new found relief streamed down your face. 

“ _Yess,_ ” he hissed as he bit his way down the tendon of your throat. More bruises. As if he was giving you what had been erased from his body, “F-uck,” He thrust into you harder, One of his knees bending for more leverage and you felt the both of you sliding on the carpet. 

“Cum for me,” he demanded, his voice harsh against your ear. His cock impaling you over and over. He bit your earlobe and growled, pulled, sucked, and you moaned, you were so close. 

“ _Cum,_ ” he growled, “Show-show me what I’m fucking living for.”

You came for him. Quick and hard and screaming his name as you fell apart for him and every emotion you had felt in such a small amount of time crashed around you and you sobbed for him. Thanked him. Begged him for more. 

He gave you more. 

Rick wasn’t done with you. He would never give up so easily. When he was high he would call himself a god and he wouldn’t stop until that's what you were calling him.

He kissed your cheek and pushed himself up from you, back to his knees, his hands gripping your hips to keep you impaled on him. He pulled you off of him slowly and you watched him as he watched himself sliding out of you. He rested there for a moment, the head of him still splitting your lips, his mouth parted at the sight of you around him. He pulled his attention from his own cock to look you in the eyes, that wicked fucking smirk on his lips as he held your gaze and slammed himself back inside of you. 

You screamed and your back arched off the floor and he held you tight to keep you from escaping him. More bruises. 

And that’s how he fucked you. A push and pull of your hips to match his thrusts. Long and deep and violent. Your fingers tore into the carpet, desperate for something to grip with him out of reach. His grunts and growls were drowned out by your crying and begging for less, for more, please stop, don’t stop, harder, Rick, oh god, Rick…

Your babbling drove him on, giving you everything you asked for and more. One of his hands left your hip and he brought his thumb to his mouth, wetting it with his spit before he slid his hand between you, rubbing the wetness over your swollen clit, still throbbing from your first orgasm. You cried out for him again. God, Rick, please, god. And he laughed, low and dark and gave you more. 

His movements were merciless. Driving into you like an animal in desperate heat. He let go of your hips completely and fell forward, trapping his arm between you as he rolled his hips and growled filth in your ear. 

“Come on, princess,” he purred with a rough, dark edge, “You’re so fuck-fucking tight and wet and perfect. Do you have any fucking idea how fuck-fucking hard it makes me when you scream my name?” He gave a deep, rough thrust to illustrate his point, and you screamed his name in response, “Y-yeah, just like that baby. Just like that. Now cum for me!” he demanded and you gave… as if you had a choice. You were chanting his name like it was a prayer. Your back arched and your thighs shook on either side of him and it only had him driving deeper, harder, faster. Merciless as he rode out your violent end and sought the same release for himself.

He came with a snarl of your name and a shudder from his head to his toes. His head dropped to your neck again and his teeth worried one of the bruises he had left there. He mumbled praise into your hot skin as his cock pulsed inside of you, filling you. He told you how good you had been for him, how great you felt, that no one could make him cum like you, that no one screamed his name like you. Just you, only you, _sólo a ti_.

For a little while you let yourself believe the Only and Just.

You both stayed like that. In a tangle of limbs and half shed clothing. Chest to chest as your breathing slowed and matched one another. Your hands combed through his hair and he absently kissed your skin. Lazy turning to drowsy. 

You laughed when you heard him snore. He was heavy on you but you were happy to bear his weight. He seemed to carry so much on his shoulders, it was the least you could do. And you were glad he was alive.

He mumbled in his sleep, soft sounds that were nonsense to your ears, but you listened anyway. Sometimes he said things you needed to hear.

“ _No me sigas_ ,” he muttered softly.

Don’t follow me.


End file.
